


Red (In His Heart)

by zanoranna (rei_c)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/zanoranna
Summary: After the mess of Liverpool F.C.'s 2010-2011 season, Fernando Torres promises to give the club another six months. Then Bastian Schweinsteiger signs for the Reds. Both of them may find that they're willing to give more than they bargained for -- and will get everything they've ever wanted in return.
Relationships: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Fernando Torres, Olalla Domínguez/Fernando Torres, Sarah Brandner/Bastian Schweinsteiger





	Red (In His Heart)

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe with the shirt on. Sometimes it’s harder without.

* * *

He wears the red, white, and blue of Atlético most days though he has a shirt in the red and gold of his country’s colours. His best friend plays for Real Madrid. Liverpool wants him. Chelsea wants him. Newcastle United wants him. There have been rumours of Italy, rumours of Germany, but it will be England. Anywhere else is too close to Madrid, to home and family and friends and expectations and disappointment after disappointment after disappointment.

He dreams in black and white, mostly, though he starts to dream in colour in 2006, after his team -- one of his teams -- crashes out of competition in the Round of 16. 

Red. 

Red everywhere, and if it isn’t the red of Atleti, the red of España, it might as well be the red of Liverpool. 

**

Sergio, his laughing, dancing gypsy, does not understand -- how could he, in the white of Real, in a line of men who hold Raul and Guti and Casillas and Cannavaro and Beckham? How could he, when he doesn’t lose, when he doesn’t wear the armband, when he doesn’t understand what it means to be an Atlético rojiblanco? 

With Sergio watching, still and silent for once, Fernando Torres scrawls Liverpool’s slogan on the underside of his captain’s armband. 

He will sign for Liverpool this summer, still Torres, still number nine, still in red, but this time older, bent and so very close to broken, and the red will wash over him, head to toe, at Anfield.

* * *

“I hear you’re going to Spain,” Lukas says. Louis squawls in the background. “Or England. Real and Chelsea are chasing you.” 

There’s wistfulness in Lukas’ voice, that and a touch of jealousy, enough for Bastian to bite his tongue and taste blood in his mouth a moment later. He gets up, spits in the sink, studies the splatter for answers it doesn’t hold because it is his and all he has are questions. 

“Bayern has to sell you now if they want to make any money off you.” Business. Lukas always wants to talk business when Bastian just wants his best friend. “You’re a legend, Basti.” 

Silence between them, then. They both know that legends are too easily replaced. 

Bastian finally says, “Mesut and Sami told me not to go to Real. Too many midfielders already, unless Mourinho sells half the team.” 

“He might,” Lukas says. “For you, he might. What has Micha said?” 

Micha, their captain, dumped first by Chelsea and then by Germany herself, too old, too physical, languishing on the injuries list at Leverkusen. _Do what you want_ , that’s what Micha said, that and _be careful about your choice_ , _don’t leave Germany, no matter what I tell the press_.

Bastian looks out the window, into the light of a Munich sunrise. “Watch out for Ashley Cole.” 

**

“What do you want to do?” Sarah asks him. Putting a hand on his heart, she asks, “What do you want to be, here, inside?”

“Just myself,” he says. 

She smiles at him, moves her hand and settles next to him, curling in to him the way he’s been doing for weeks, hunching over, looking in, ignoring everything outside. “You’ll have to choose,” she says. 

He knows he will. He just doesn’t want to.

* * *

New owners. Everyone is optimistic but it will take time to turn the team around and they are all so tired, fighting off injuries and depression. With luck things will turn around but he’s hearing talk about him, about how poorly he’s doing, and of course he is, they’re right, all of them. One injury after another and now finally on the verge of being fully match-fit but he still can’t _do_ anything. 

The others look at him in the dressing room, game after game, accusation in their eyes as they slump against lockers, too tired to kick their shoes off, too worn down to get changed. It’s not going well; they all feel like they are the ones bringing this once-proud club down to its knees, and none moreso than Fernando Torres. Coming to Liverpool was full of hope, wishes for a new start, a change from the everyday turmoil that was captaining the less glamorous of Madrid’s teams, but the expectations have crashed, now, three seasons later. 

There is no change. There is nothing different. He’s as useless here as he was at Atleti. If he leaves, Liverpool will do better -- but who wants a striker washed up at the age of twenty-six?

* * *

Offers on the table, stacked in piles of paper. Real Madrid. Chelsea. Manchester United. Manchester City. Inter Milan. AC Milan. Juventus.

Nothing from Barcelona, a relief, and he won’t go to Italy. It will be England because Mourinho has promised him the world but isn’t making a move to sell any of his midfield-loaded squad and he’s not guaranteed to start every game, not with the talent of those already at Real. England, and four clubs have offered. 

Manchester, either of the teams there, play Champions League football, and Chelsea does as well. Liverpool has made enquiries: they look as if they might squeak into the Europa League next season but they desperately need a good midfielder. He would fit in well there, he thinks, even with Gerrard and Torres, but he’d be a fool to leave Bayern for a club that’s struggling even now, six months after a vicious and prolonged take-over battle. He’d be a fool and it wouldn’t make sense to go, but he sweeps the Italian and Spanish offers into the wastepaper basket and stares at the English ones. 

“London?” Sarah asks, looking over his shoulder and scratching his scalp with her nails. “Or Manchester? I shouldn’t think Sir Alex would be a thrill to work for but his squad’s aging. Chelsea’s midfield is pretty strong. Essien, Malouda, Mikel. You’d need French for them, I think.” She pauses, asks, “Could you play on the same team as Cole and Terry?” 

“Wouldn’t be much harder than playing with Ferdinand or Balotelli,” he says. “But none of those teams need me, Sarah, not really.” 

She reaches over him, picks up the Liverpool letter -- not a package, not a formal offer, just a letter, and says, “You’re better than they are, Basti.” 

He takes a deep breath. “So are they.”

* * *

He’ll stay. Of course he’s going to stay, isn’t going to run out and abandon the club when they need him most. He just isn’t sure if they really _do_ need him, or if he isn’t making the problem worse. They clawed their way up the table after Hodgson left, after a few players went out and others came in during the January transfer season. He starts most games but doesn’t usually finish them; it’s all right because he’s scoring more, pulling out draws and wins, one goal at a time, from reserves so far down in his bones that he’s shocked there’s anything left. 

The summer transfer season is going to be harsh. His agent has already been approached by the new owners. He can stay if he wants or he can leave. Olalla tells him to do what feels right, the same thing she told him in Madrid, four years ago. 

**

“You’re not washed up,” Steven tells him. “You’re not. ‘Nando, you. Are you _really_ thinking of leaving? I know it’s not the same anymore but you.” Steven stops, shrugs, and then says, “You’re Liverpool’s Number Nine.”

“I don’t think Liverpool wants me anymore.” He doesn’t sound pitiful, doesn’t sound depressed or argumentative or confrontational. It’s a tone of voice he’s come to use more and more, now, the way he did in the last few months with Atleti: matter-of-fact, dispassionate, blank. “And Steven. _Stevie_. I can’t blame them.” 

Steven takes a deep breath, lets it out in stages. It’s just the two of them, sitting cross-legged on the Melwood touchline, and yet it feels as if the entire city is there, watching them. This is what Steven is: the hope and pride and joy of an entire city, the captain of a legacy club, bending under the pressure but defiant at the same time. 

“Please,” Steven says. “Don’t go. Half a season, at the very least. We’re bringing in new people, will have a clean start in the league. I know it’s Europa League football but that’s still better than nothing, and there are fucking good teams playing in it now. Just. Give us until January.” 

He should go but he’s selfish. He doesn’t want to leave, not the club, not the city, not this man who has always -- _always_ \-- supported him and guided him and who has come to symbolise the best things about England, about Liverpool, about football. 

Even about himself. 

“I want to,” he says. 

Steven gives him a lopsided smile. “So, do it, then. Stay.” 

Maybe it is just that easy.

* * *

He flies to England once the season is over with only his agent for company, though Sarah is speed-dial “1” and Lukas is speed-dial “2,” both of them making promises to pick up the instant he should call. He tours Chelsea first, meets Ancelotti and warily shakes hands with Terry and Lampard, eyeing the latter as if sizing up his chances. The Cobham facilities are state-of-the art, very impressive, and he catches his breath when he walks out onto the pitch at Stamford Bridge. 

To play here, in the capital, for a club like this. He’s coming from Bayern, yes, but there is something different about Chelsea, something brash and bold and cunningly seductive, something that strokes at him and says that he can do anything, once he’s wearing the lion rampant rearguard. 

He leaves, finds the temptation fading with every mile closer he gets to Manchester. He’s wined and dined by Ferguson and Mancini, finds them both distasteful though in different ways. Manchester City is nouveau riche, though he sees the locker with David Silva’s name on it and can’t help but wonder what it would be like to partner him in the midfield, and Jérôme is here, so he wouldn’t be entirely alone. Manchester United has history, Old Trafford a staid and respectable place, but their back-line is a mess and they desperately need a keeper. Every team has problems from time to time, he understands that, but this is one club where he wouldn’t be happy, he knows that just from walking in to Carrington. 

With one day left in England, he sends his agent back to Germany and goes to Liverpool alone. There’s no real welcoming committee of staff or management waiting for him when he gets to Melwood; Steven Gerrard is there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, laughing as he listens to something Fernando Torres is telling him. They stop when they see him and Steven asks, “No agent?” 

He shrugs, says, “We didn’t receive an offer. Just a letter.” 

“But you’re here,” Torres says, as if it means something. 

It does mean something and all three of them know it -- but neither of them call him on it. 

**

They show him around Melwood, tell him stories about the other players and the physios, then they pile into Gerrard’s car and Gerrard takes them to Anfield. 

It’s a strange moment, walking out of the tunnel and on to the pitch, alone, Gerrard and Torres waiting near the bench. He’s heard stories of European nights here, watched Istanbul in disbelief and then delight, has seen what it can be like via television and internet. But nothing prepares him for the air, here, the way it seems to pulsate, thrum in anticipation, and he faces the Kop End and closes his eyes. 

“You’ll never walk alone,” Torres says. 

He opens his eyes, glances at the striker, who is staring at the Kop, clearly caught in his own memories. He looks around, can’t see Gerrard and guesses the captain has disappeared somewhere to give them time. That says a lot for him, the Englishman who was a better captain than Capello gave him credit -- or respect -- for. “The fans turn on us quickly enough,” he says. 

Torres returns the look, gives him a smile, battered and bruised but still standing. “They’ll forgive anything we do, so long as we do it for them.” 

“You’re staying, then?” he asks. 

“Where else would I go?” Torres asks in return. “I won’t play for anyone in Spain except Atlético and they aren’t pounding on the door, and I won’t leave Liverpool for another English team. Juventus? One of the Milan teams? Turkey or the US?” Torres pauses, looks sly as he adds, “Bayern?”

That hurts, just a little. “You’re better than this, Torres. Better than the Europa League, better than most of the strikers in this country. You could be lifting trophies with Chelsea, Barcelona. Even. Even Bayern.” 

Torres is quiet, and they both look back at the Kop as Torres says, “So could you. But you’re here.”

There’s no real answer to that, so he just says, “Maybe I just like the colour red, and can’t stand Ferguson.” 

Torres flinches at that, a little, and so he feels compelled to apologise, unsure how his joke could be taken so badly by the striker. But Torres tells him not to worry about it, that he understands, perhaps too well. They head for the tunnels, together but silent, and as he passes under the sign, _This is Anfield_ , he realises, for the first time, what it feels like to experience the shock of homecoming in a place he’s never been before.

* * *

“Schweinsteiger texted me,” Steven says, in lieu of hello, how are you, am I interrupting. 

He doesn’t expect any of the niceties, not after all this time, so he just smiles, says, “Oh?” Steven doesn’t say anything, as if he’s upset or something’s happened. “Steven? What’s wrong?” he asks, sitting up in the chair, sunscreen bottle tipping off the side and bouncing on the cement. It’s warm in Miami, almost too much so, but Olalla and Nora enjoy the heat and it’s nice to relax. Sometimes, though, a holiday seems too much like running away.

“He wanted to know if anyone had claimed the number 31,” Steven says. “I said no, and he said. ‘Nando, he said _he_ was.”

Olalla is watching him, asks if there’s anything wrong using her eyes and a tilt of her head as Nora splashes in the water, safe in Olalla’s hands. He shakes his head at her, gives her a smile, and she doesn’t believe him but she does trust him, so she turns her full attention back to their daughter. 

“‘Nando?” Steven says. “Are you there?” 

“I heard you,” he says. “I’m here, I. Really?”

Steven says, “Nothing’s been signed, so. It could all fall through. But he said Sarah was looking forward to meeting Alex and Olalla, and asked which areas would be good to live in. He wanted to know about apartments.” 

He thinks about it, about what it will be like to walk out onto the pitch with them, Steven and Jamie and Schweinsteiger -- _Bastian_. He thinks about tactics and strengths and the way Bastian looked, staring at the Kop End, reaching up to touch their talismanic sign, how his eyes took in everything about Melwood, about Anfield, the heat of his body as the two of them walked up the tunnel together in search of Steven. 

Here, in Miami, the sun and sand of a highly-processed, commercial holiday spot, he gets chills. 

Bastian Schweinsteiger, in Liverpool red. 

“Which do you think we’ll win this year,” he asks. “The Europa League? FA Cup? The Prem?”

Steven laughs, says, “All of them. We’ll win them _all_.”

* * *

They say he’s crazy. All the tabloids think he’s insane, going from Bayern, perennial favourite in every competition, to a place like Liverpool, creaking under the weight of expectation and slowly breaking to pieces. Lukas doesn’t talk to him for a week, then calls him and tells him he’s throwing his future away. He listens to Lukas, takes it all until he can’t and finally snaps, “What, like you did when you went back to Köln?”

Lukas doesn’t hang up on him but it’s a close thing, made worse when Lukas says, quietly, “It’s different for me, Basti, you know that. But. _Liverpool_?” 

He can’t say anything to that. 

Sarah has been hovering; she slips the phone out of his grasp and says, “Poldi, they are in _desperate_ need of my style. I mean, their greatest wag is Alex Curran and have you _seen_ some of the things she wears?”

He takes a deep breath as she talks. Lukas cares about him, that’s the only reason he’s so incensed, and when Sarah hands the phone back, he says, “Sorry, Poldi. That was uncalled for.” 

Lukas shrugs it off, like always, and asks, “What do you think Jogi’s going to say?” 

“I’ve already told him,” he says. “I. Before I signed, I talked to him about it.” Lukas is silent; all the national team and Bayern players found out from the newspapers. “He said there’ll be a place for me in the _nationalelf_ , like always, so long as I keep playing well.”

“I still think you’re making a mistake,” Lukas says. “But I hope I’m wrong. I hope it turns out to be another one of your brilliant ideas that no one could’ve seen coming, because I don’t see this going well.”

* * *

It’s strange, sometimes, to get to practice and see the German warming up in Liverpool’s training kit. Strange to see Bastian laughing with Steven and Jamie, grinning at Lucas, talking to Danny and Martin in low voices near one of the goalposts, too quietly for anyone to eavesdrop on them. Bastian gets along with everyone but he spends the most time with Liverpool’s number nine, the two of them nearly inseparable. 

It’s the beginnings of a strong friendship and it translates to the pitch faster than he ever grew to understand the way Steven and Xabi played. Bastian passes him the ball, he scores, the two of them celebrate together, time after time, until the tabs are calling them a formidable strike partnership, an unbeatable combination. He’s getting used to the way Bastian tackles him after a goal, used to the way Bastian’s hands feel around his hips, around his shoulders as Bastian jumps on him, and it sets him to shivering, every time. 

**

“You never call me anymore,” Sergio complains. 

He can imagine Sergio right now, spread out on the floor, soaking up the spot of sunlight as it moves across the carpet, can faintly hear flamenco in the background. Sergio is whining, as Sergio often does, but there’s some truth to the complaint. It’s like 2008 all over again: flush with victory, with a team that’s gelled and is knocking down opposing team one after another, he spends less time on the phone, less time thinking about Spain, too busy imagining up new plays, caught up in the excitement that is sixteen points out of eighteen, no losses. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I just.” 

“I hope it’s not 2010 all over again,” Sergio says, quietly, tone too serious for the gypsy. 

He feels guilty for putting that tone into his best friend’s voice, but Sergio plays for Mourinho and Iker, has worn the white of Real ever since leaving Sevilla. Sergio doesn’t understand, will never understand. 

That didn’t matter, before. Somehow it does now. 

“I talked to Iker about it,” Sergio says, more to fill the silence than any other reason. “He said you can’t get too used to him, not when the Euros are coming up in the summer. They’ve stormed through qualifying. We’d be lucky if someone else knocks them out before we face them.” 

He hasn’t been called up to the national team for qualifiers since Bastian arrived in Liverpool. He knows that he’s missed out on so much, team strategies and gossip both, but he hasn’t even watched the games to see what new tactics Del Bosque has been trying out. Pepe’s come back from national team practices, training, and Pepe lives next door but that doesn’t mean he’s there waiting to hear from Pepe what he’s missed. 

Instead, he’s always at Bastian and Sarah’s; Bastian invariably gets back from the continent before Pepe and it’s become routine for Bastian and Sarah to have him and Olalla over, Sarah cooing over Olalla and Nora both while he and Bastian disappear into the game room, sit pressed next to each other playing ProEvo and talking about new strategies they’d like to try implementing, plays they try out on the Melwood pitch early in the morning before anyone else gets there, coaxing Steven into joining them when he finally arrives. Some of their ideas have worked, one ended up with Bastian lying on the ground, laughing too hard to stand up, but at night, on days off, he’s misses the creativity that seems to flow free and easy with Bastian the way it never did with anyone on the Spanish team, anyone at Atleti, just like no one else seems to understand him so well, has ever been so in tune with him. 

“Fernando?” Sergio says. 

“Yeah?” he replies. “What is it, Sese?” 

There’s silence for a moment, then Sergio asks, “Do you think you’ll ever come back to Spain? I thought, maybe, after last season was so. But then you. Or are you staying in England forever?” 

Spain, which used to be home. Spain, which holds such great joy but also such great tragedy. Spain, where there is no Liverpool, no Anfield, no Steven. 

No Bastian. 

“Where would I go?” he asks in reply. “And don’t say Madrid, Sese, there’s only one team in Madrid for me. There’s only one team in La Liga for me. Coming back to Spain would mean.”

He stops there, doesn’t want to have to spell it out, and Sergio sighs. “Yeah,” Sergio says. “I know. But I miss you.” 

“I miss you, too,” he says, but then the doorbell’s ringing and Bastian’s peering through the glass, knit cap low over his forehead, hands near his eyes to better see inside the house. 

“I had an idea,” Bastian says, when the door’s open. “I thought we could try it out on ProEvo, but you’ll have to be.” Bastian stops, finally realising that he’s interrupted a phone call, and says, “ _Scheiße_ , Fer, you didn’t have to answer the door.” 

Sergio’s talking, speaking in Spanish so _fast_ , that it flows past his ear, incomprehensible. 

“Sese, I have to go,” he says, grinning at Bastian, watching as Bastian grins back, starts to slide inside. “I’ll call you later.” 

“No, you won’t,” Sergio’s saying. 

He hangs up, tilts his head towards the game room, and says, “I still have the last match loaded. Will that be all right?” 

“Perfect,” Bastian says. 

Bastian’s nose is bright red from the cold and, though he’s kicked off his shoes and left his coat on the banister and stuffed his gloves into one shoe, he’s still wearing his scarf. “D’you have tea?” Bastian asks, as they pass the kitchen. “Or coffee?” 

Bastian touches him, curves a hand ‘round the back of his neck, and the yelp he makes sets Bastian to laughing.

* * *

Sometimes it’s unfair how adorable Fernando Torres is. He bemoans the fact constantly, sometimes to Sarah but mostly to himself, like now, watching the striker bustle around the kitchen and mother-hen him, deciding first on an immunoboost tea, then on something strong and English, then a cinnamon-blackcurrant herbal infusion, before throwing his hands up and turning around. 

“What do you _want_?” Fernando asks. 

“What’s easiest?” he asks back, shrugging with one shoulder. He watches as Fernando’s eyes dip to his mouth then dart back up and -- yes, there’s the blush. It’s been happening more and more and no one will ever say that he’s oblivious when it comes to seeing those signs, like his eagle-eye understanding of the midfield and the pace of any football match have crossed over, somehow, to his personal life. 

It’s something he’s thankful for; most footballers are too dense to ever notice the signs or the fact that they display them.

Fernando bites his lips, stares at the mess of the tea cupboard, and finally says, “I don’t _know_.” Fernando sounds so woebegone that it’s hard not to laugh. 

He goes over to look at the cupboard as well; it looks like his and Sarah’s: no order, boxes and tins stacked haphazardly, wherever they’ll fit. He nudges Fernando with one hip, says, “Go get the system up. I’ll make tea,” and reaches up for the orange pekoe, his favourite, knowing exactly where it is, shoved behind the green with mandarin orange, the blackcurrant cold-and-flu sachets from Boots, the tin of Nescafé. 

“I find it really disturbing that you know where the tea is better than I do,” Fernando says after a moment. 

“Really?” he asks, teasing. “Disturbing? I think you mean totally awesome.” 

Fernando snorts, says, “Yeah. Right. That’s exactly what I meant.” 

He watches as Fernando leaves the kitchen, heading for the game-room. Without Fernando, the only sound in the kitchen is the kettle as it heats up. He puts a teabag in the mug, gets one ready for Fernando as well -- honey lemon, the Spaniard’s favourite -- and leans back against the counter. 

It should feel wrong, awkward, somehow, to be this comfortable in a house that isn’t his own. He never felt like this at Lukas and Monika’s; something tells him he should feel guilty about that, should feel sad or heartbroken or ashamed but he doesn’t. He’s just -- 

“System’s up,” Fernando tells him, peering around the corner as the kettle starts to whistle. “You ready?” 

“In a sec,” he says, and Fernando’s smile is warmer than the steam pouring out of the kettle’s spout as he pours them tea for two.

* * *

He’s not sure what it is about Bastian: the way Bastian’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, the curve of Bastian’s lips just for him when he scores, Bastian’s accent or the way Bastian still slips into frustrated German when one of the Scousers doesn’t understand what they’re trying to say, the way Bastian doesn’t flinch from Liverpool’s grey cold but, instead, puts on a warmer coat and tugs him outside to go jogging though the city, to go shopping with the girls, to play pranks on Pepe, Steven, Jamie, Lucas. 

Bastian is there every time he scores and every time he misses, all through practice and half the time outside of it, and then there’s only one week until the Christmas break.

Olalla has decorated the house until he hardly recognises it. He escapes to Bastian and Sarah’s apartment, which pays homage to Christmas but doesn’t revel in it. 

“Sarah’s in Milan,” Bastian says, answering the door. 

He knew that, knows that Bastian will fly to Milan the day after their last game before the holiday, and says as much before adding, “Just don’t forget the way back to Liverpool, all right?” 

“Impossible,” Bastian murmurs, and he flushes, looking away from Bastian’s piercing gaze and in the direction of the television and the tangled mess of gaming consoles, cables, and controllers. 

They put on a movie, end up talking through the entire thing, and he gets up to leave once it’s done. Bastian stands as well, and then tilts his head, points upwards, and says, “Mistletoe.” 

No one else is there. Everything is quiet, save for the sound of rain falling outside, and Bastian is smiling at him. 

He leans forward, quick, and presses a phantom-light kiss to Bastian’s lips before grabbing his things and leaving -- not in a dead sprint but close. 

**

“Say that again,” Xabi says. 

“Olalla and I are coming back to Madrid, but only for a week.”

Xabi sighs; it’s all too easy to picture him rubbing his forehead. “‘Nando, you _know_ Sergio’s been looking forward to spending New Year’s with you, right? This is going to.” Xabi stops, asks, “Why only a week, Fernando?” 

Xabi sounds suspicious, so he says, hurriedly, “It’s not to come back to Liverpool, I promise,” because some things are sacred and the connection between Xabi and Steven will always be one of those things. 

“It has to do with Schweinsteiger, doesn’t it,” Xabi says, flatly. “Khedira and Özil’ve been talking about it and I don’t know a lot of German but it’s hard to miss it when they’re screaming at each other and throwing his name around.” 

“What?” he asks, sitting up, hand dropping to his side where before, a moment ago, he’d been touching his lips, half-thinking of the way Bastian’s felt against them. 

Xabi makes a clucking noise, reminds him of his mother. “None of the Germans wanted Schweinsteiger to go to England, much less Liverpool, and they aren’t exactly happy that he’s settled in so well. Fernando, tell me you’ve been keeping up with at least _some_ of the gossip, please.” 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Your Christmas plans?” Xabi prompts, after a moment. 

He flops back down, stares at the cracked plaster on the ceiling around the track-lighting. “Skiing,” he says. “Ollala and Nora and I are going skiing. In, uh. Oberaudorf.”

Xabi doesn’t say anything. 

In the next moment, the only thing he hears is the dial tone.

* * *

Fernando Torres has never been skiing before, that much is plain to see. Nora picks it up quick, and Sarah has helped Olalla down one of the bunny hills, but Fernando is standing at the top, staring at the powder with trepidation written all over his face. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Fernando says. “What if we die? What if we break our legs and can’t play for the rest of the season, and Liverpool gets relegated and laughed off the face of the earth? Our second match back is against Chelsea, we can’t miss that.” 

“Fer,” he says. “You are such a coward. Now go or I’ll push you down.” 

Fernando goes and it’s such a little hill, such a tiny little slope, but Fernando’s cheeks are flushed at the bottom. Fernando takes off his goggles and gets their skis tangled up as Fernando tries to throw arms around him, hug him tight and close though layers and gloves while their poles lie forgotten in the snow. 

“I did it!” Fernando says. 

It’s hard not to smile in the face of such enthusiasm. He says, dryly, “Your daughter’s gone down twice.” 

Fernando mock-glares but pulls him back up and they go down again and again, until Fernando’s ready for something harder, a true beginner’s slope. 

They ski and ski some more, and then Sarah comes to tear him away. They leave the Torres family sitting at the chalet drinking hot chocolate, and make their way to the ski-lift for a black run. There aren’t many people going up at this time of afternoon; the seats in front of them and behind them are empty. 

“It’s good to show them this,” Sarah says. “It’s good to bring them here.” She pauses, then says, “We should go to Madrid this summer. Maybe after the Euros.” 

The Euros. So hard to imagine playing on a pitch and having Fernando on the opposite team. He looks for him during every national game, every practice, but hasn’t gotten used to Fernando not being there. To see him on the pitch in a different kit, playing with a different team -- it will be strange, to say the least, if the mere thought of it is this off-putting.

“It’ll be hot,” he says, but then adds, “I’d like to go. If.” 

“Olalla’s already invited me,” Sarah admits. “No matter what happens. You do. I mean, you _do_ know what’s, what we’ve.” 

He reaches out, holds Sarah’s gloved hand in his own, wishes he could touch her, skin to skin, as he says, “I’m glad. I’d feel guilty, otherwise.” 

Sarah snorts. “You and Fer haven’t done anything more than play ProEvo to the point of driving the rest of us insane. Oh, and you’ve kissed. Once.” 

“Hey,” he protests. “It’s not my fault that I’m not as irresistible as you.” 

“Damn straight,” Sarah says, and lifts the bar as the arrive at the top of the slope. 

He follows her down, trailing the sound of her laughter as they glide over the snow faster than the wind.

* * *

He puts Nora to bed, tells her a story and then looks up, once she’s sleeping, to see Bastian watching him, fondness written over the planes of his face, an open expression on a face used to hiding so much. 

“Sarah and Ollala went out for a drink but then I think they’re going back to mine and Sarah’s room,” Bastian says. “They said we have Nora for the evening.” 

“Do you even,” he starts to say, stops. He and Olalla talk, have talked more than once about this, about the way the two of them feel about the two Germans, how quickly they’ve become inseparable and more. “When are you and Sarah going to have kids?” he asks, instead. “Or get married?” 

Bastian rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling. “Neither of us really like children.” 

“You like Nora,” he says, tucking her in and bending down to kiss her forehead before leaving her bedroom, making sure the door is left cracked open a bit. 

“Nora’s different,” Bastian says, as if that’s enough to explain it. 

It is. 

His phone rings; he ignores it, follows Bastian to the couch. A film’s on television; they sit down and, halfway through, he finds himself curling into Bastian, eyes heavy. Bastian’s stroking his scalp, hard rubs with nails that almost sets him to groaning, it feels so good. 

He falls asleep, must, because the next thing he knows, Bastian is murmuring things like, “Time to go to bed, Fer,” and “the movie’s over, come on.” He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to move, but then Bastian says, “Come on, Fer, I’m tired,” and he gets the energy to move, to wander into the bedroom and fall onto the bed, face-first, still unmade from the morning. 

He yawns, pulls the blankets up, and freezes, so suddenly awake, when the mattress dips on the other side and Bastian says, “Save some for me,” in a hesitant voice that is so very full of hope. 

“Yeah,” he says, and moves to the middle of the bed, meeting Bastian halfway. “All right.” 

“G’night,” Bastian says, right into his ear, husky with sleep, “ _schatzi_.” 

Bastian is asleep by the time he works up the courage to ask what that pet name means, what it implies. 

**

Cooing wakes him up, that and snickering. He cracks one eye, experiences a moment of terror so intense that it has him freezing and wide awake. 

“Aw,” Olalla says, with Sarah behind her, arms wrapped ‘round her, chin resting on Olalla’s shoulder. “Look at them, Sarah. So adorable.” 

“Not ‘dorable,” Bastian grumbles. “Sleeping.” 

The girls laugh and Sarah tells him, “Better get used to it, Fer. Basti’s always like that in the morning, before he’s had his caffeine or a hot shower.” 

Olalla slips out of Sarah’s grasp, leans to kiss her on the lips, says, “Come on, we’ll get breakfast started for the lazy ones,” and they disappear, though Sarah says, “Does this mean you two finally,” before Olalla pulls her out of the doorway and lets the door slam shut behind them. 

Bastian’s arm tightens around him and Bastian pulls him close, absently kisses the back of his neck. “She’s so _loud_ in the mornings,” Bastian groans. 

He should be panicking. It’s one thing to know that his wife is fucking Bastian’s girlfriend, is entirely something else to see an expression of that as soon he wakes up. It’s one thing to have told Olalla that he and Bastian have -- are -- might one day, it’s another to be caught sleeping in Bastian’s arms. 

He isn’t panicking, though. He’s smiling. He’s warm, kept so by the sheets and by Bastian, he’s hungry, he desperately needs to piss, and he’s smiling.

* * *

No one said they could do it. No one thought they’d be able to turn the club around this fast but Liverpool finished second, is back in the Champions League after winning the Europa League, after winning the FA cup.

“Second!” Fernando yells in his ear as he comes from nowhere and leaps, knocking them both to the ground. “Ahead of the fucking Mancs! Ahead of Everton and Villa and Spurs and Arsenal!” 

He laughs, can’t help it, and wishes he could kiss Fernando here, now, in front of everyone. That will come later, though, so, for now, he just screams along with Fernando and they get up, run around, hug everyone, jump on everyone, then join the pile on top of Gerrard. 

Anfield shakes around them, every one of their fans just as loud, as exhilarated, as ecstatic.

Next year is so full of promise. Next year they will win. 

Next year.

* * *

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe with the shirt on. And sometimes, it is so very, very easy.


End file.
